become frightfully thin. His pallor was extreme; he had no blood showing under his skin; you would have said he was a statue of wax. It was evident that death was coming on apace. It was not only certain, but imminent. And, though the uselessness of medical science in the case had certainly been clearly shown, I could not help knocking once again at its door. I knew of no other in this world.
“I applied to the most eminent physician in Bordeaux, Dr. Gintrac. Dr. Gintrac examined his throat, sounded it, and found, besides the mere contraction which had almost entirely closed the alimentary canal, some most threatening roughnesses or small swellings.
“He shook his head, and gave me little hope. He saw my terrible anxiety.
“‘I do not say that his cure is impossible,’ said he; ‘but he is very ill.’
“These were his exact words.
“He considered it absolutely necessary to employ local remedies; first injections, then the application of a cloth soaked in ether. But this treatment prostrated the child; in view of the result, the surgeon himself, M. Sentex, employed in the hospital, advised us to discontinue it.
“In one of my visits to Dr. Gintrac, I communicated to him an idea which had occurred to me.
“‘It seems to me,’ said I, ‘that if Jules had the will, he could swallow. Does not this difficulty perhaps come from fear? Is it not perhaps that he does not swallow to-day merely because he did not yesterday? If so, it is a mental malady, which can only be cured by moral means.’
“But the doctor dispelled this my last illusion.
“‘You are mistaken,’ said he. ‘The disease is in the organs themselves, which are only too really and seriously